Hell of a Birthday
by Sally Mn
Summary: Chris is spending it alone. With Ezra.


**Hell of a Birthday**

Hell of a way to spend a birthday, Larabee.

It's freezin', it's pissing down outside, it's dark and dirty in this abandoned and decaying boarding house on the road to Hell's Springs. Your head hurts from a dimly recalled meeting with a rifle butt and your leg's on fire from a stray bullet in the latest _'tedious altercation with assorted malefactors'._ That's what Standish called it, rather more polite than your own 'shitstorm an' a half', but then that's Ezra for you. Man's as finicky about his words as he is about anything else... 'less it's _him_ that took the bullet and then he can turn the air blue with the best of 'em.

Anyhow, it now all hurts like the devil, you're slumped on a damp and moldering settle sofa with rusting springs digging into your ass, and you'd give everything you own - not that that's much, say instead everything that _Ezra _owns - for a whiskey.

Sure, Ezra always carries the finest whiskey our dustbowl of a town supplies in that pretty little flask of his, but they wasted that on your leg (and bein' Standish, he'd normally try to gouge you - or the idiot who did the shooting - for the cost of it). To be honest _you'd _be almost willing to pay. Almost.

That is, if he and Vin had been bright enough not to use it _all_ on the leg.

You're pissed, you're cold, you're feeling your age in every bone tonight. Vin had better be back soon, that's all you can think, soon, and with Nate. And food. And more whiskey.

**~oOo~**

Talkin' of finicky, Ezra's fussing around now, trying to get the damn fire going. You don't think it'll happen this side of the Second Coming, but it gives him somethin' to do rather than drive you crazy so you can't be bothered saying anything. Hell, it's probably the most entertainment you'll get all night, watching him. The man's like a cat in the way he hates the cold and wet... and in a lot of other ways too.

Truth to tell, you always thought you liked dogs better - maybe that's where Buck comes in - but you have a soft spot for cats too. Not that you'd be stupid enough to tell Standish that, he takes enough advantage of every weak moment.

Or he did.

Till two months ago. That damn ten thousand dollars.

You were _right_, in what you thought and did, you know that. But you forgot, didn't you? - forgot how you need to stroke cats sometimes, let them know you want them around. Sure, it would have been crazy to trust him with the cash, as crazy as trusting a cat with chicken and cream, but you didn't need to make it so plain to him. Not that he's said anything - well, not about _that,_ man still talks up a storm of fancy words at every turn - but you can tell. Like that same damn feline, he's...

...Not uncarin', not that. Just remote. With those fake smiles, and the jokes that hurt when you think about them, and the schemes he now seems to scheme because they're expected rather than because they're fun, and the big act like nothin's wrong and nothin's changed. But it's all from somewhere that's sorta... just that bit too far away to reach like you all could before. You don't wanna interfere, hell, you'd like to pretend along with him that there's nothing wrong, but you're can't help thinkin' that he's wants to make sure we know - or he knows, which could be more important - that he really _don't_ need our trust, our approval... don't need us.

Thing is, you know, an' Buck knows, an' Vin, Nate, JD, Josiah all know... _ like hell_ he don't.

**~oOo~**

You're hardly the one to try and find a silver lining to any cloud, more like you're the one looking for another cloud, but at least this means no damn birthday celebration. Because you _know_ Buck would have told half the town - man would never keep his mouth shut where there's a chance of a party, an' drinking an' all - and after all, you were the one who helped organize JD's party. But JD's still a _kid_, and kids should have good birthdays to remember when they're old enough to know better, or somethin'.

You glance at Ezra's shuttered face and wonder if he ever had a birthday to remember, or anything else. Not likely. You've _met_ Maude.

**~oOo~**

He's muttering ten-dollar cuss words under his breath as he pokes at the fireplace. You don't quite recall - what with the headache and the bullet in the leg and all - exactly _why_ Vin an' Buck decided to leave him here with you, though now you look at him, there's a stiffness to the way he's holding himself, like he didn't come out of the 'altercation' as clean as he usually does. Our Ezra, he's good as slitherin' out of the way of flying fists and weapons - and bullets (barring, of course, the time he put himself in the way of a bullet in front of you an Mary Travis _on goddamn purpose_, and took ten years off your life) but again, when he's in pain everyone in spitting distance generally knows _all _about it, and loudly. Or they did.

You really don't wanna think about it all. Thinking hurts, and you hurt enough without it, but if you're honest you'll admit the thinking's been going on, off an' on, ever since the ten thousand.

Because you don't know what to do, and you don't like the feeling that something does _need_ doing.

**~oOo~**

It ain't that you don't trust the man... well, it ain't and it _is,_ sort of. The boys, pretty much one and all (and that 'all' includes yourself), put you strongly in mind of the 'prayer' your grandpa used to say, just to annoy grandma... "lead me not into temptation Lord, I can find the way myself." Yep, that's the town's peacekeepers all right, you an' all - more'n enough weaknesses for a whole state, let alone seven flawed and far too fallible men.

Ezra's weaknesses, they're just more spectacular, and easy to come down on like a ton of bricks. If you'd thought a mite more, you might've eased up on the brickload... then again, his head's that thick, sometimes it seems the only way to get an idea through it _is_ with a brick or ten.

Like the idea that, being who he is, money _ain't _gonna make him as happy as he thinks it will.

Like the idea that, being who _you_ are, you ain't all that eager to watch him ruin his life trying to prove that it will.

Like the idea that not trusting him with money isn't the same as not trusting him at all.

Like the idea that you and the others all like him anyway, flaws an' all.

**~oOo~**

... And like the idea that he simply ain't gonna get that fire goin'. You think about telling him to give it a rest and make do with the bedroll blankets, but then he looks at you, pale eyes distant and a little... wary? - and all of a sudden it's too quiet an' you don't quite know what to say - hell and damn it, there _isn't_ anything to say!

But he's one of yours, and the fact that he's not happy makes you not happy too, and you're _more _than goddamn not happy as it is with the head, and the leg, and those chair springs _still _digging into your ass, and the cold and the damp and the fact that all you want for your birthday is a whiskey and to sleep for a week in a decent bed.

Damn it, now you're shiverin'. It's embarrassing, it's a sign of weakness, an' you know Standish will see it.

Truth be told, you're getting' sleepy but it's too cold to drop off, so you sprawl on this damn uncomfortable settle and try not to think. But trying not to think just makes you think more, and so you deliberately bring to mind better things like JD's birthday, a memory lit by warmth and candles and that damn good cake and drink, and the boys all bein' there an' just being happy.

Even you. You've learned _that _from these men, or rather re-learned it... how to care about folk again, and how to be happy.

Never occurred to you that some of them - like Standish here - were learning it at the same time. An' now he's sort of forgotten, at least the last bit. The happy bit.

Stop thinkin', Larabee. It's your birthday - even if it _is_ a hell of a way to do it - and you're allowed to.

**~oOo~**

Hell, Ezra _has _got the fire going... well, more or less, definitely less rather than more. It's barely smouldering, fitful and sullen and certain to die on him any minute, an' he stares into the weak glow, something hard to read in the shadows of his face. He's too quiet, way too quiet. He's thinkin' too, and you know damn well it's not any better thoughts than your own.

You'd wish you had the right words or any words at all, but then if you did you'd be Josiah, and you're only... you.

He straightens, and looks at you again, a question you don't know the answer to in those eyes. Shrugging - a little painfully, damn it, he _didn't_ come outa the fight all right, and Nathan better have a look at him - he turns to unfold and shake out the blankets, and cautiously - like he doesn't quite like to get too close - drapes it over you. You nod slightly, wince at what the nod does to your head, and pull the blanket closer.

It doesn't warm you much, not even slightly, but the thought's there, isn't it?

Ezra holds up something he's found - old candles, dusty and half-melted, but at least they'll give some light. You think about nodding again, decide against it, and hope he takes the silence as 'yeah, good idea.'

Birthday candles, you think. All six of 'em.

Figures, doesn't it?

It takes several attempts, but he gets one to light, uses it for the others, and arranges them close to you. The light is soft and wavering, and you close your eyes against it; you're still cold and pissed, but oddly, the thoughts are slowing, the ache in your head and fire in your leg dulling a little against the urge to sleep. Sleep sounds good, sleep seems to be doable or would be, if the damn settle was just a little less painful...

Nope. One of the springs digs in, and you smother a groan.

Ezra still doesn't touch you, but after a moment, you feel another blanket - his - settle around you.

You open your eyes and look up at him. It won't gets solved like this, you know that, it won't put right so easy, but... you can't help wishing he'd stop with whatever thoughts _he's _been thinkin', and just get all the thoughts _you've _been thinkin' tonight; solve it for himself and start learnin' to be happy again.

Damn, that didn't even make sense to you in your own head, so you'd better _not_ try for the words you don't have 'cause you're not Josiah, or Nate. In any case, maybe he sees the thoughts - or the words - or something - in your eyes. Maybe you're _not _just wishin' that you'd see some of them in his.

His smile is small and cautious; it hurts, just a little. But it also warms, because it's _real_, because it's a start, and just because... damn it, you've missed him.

"Happy birthday, Mister Larabee," he says.

**-the end-**


End file.
